Evergreen
by Conquistadora
Summary: A brief glance into the depths of Doriath and the childhood of one destined for great things.


EVERGREEN

The morning Sun filtered down gently through the sedate oaks and beeches of Doriath, dappling their lush summer leaves and the ground below with early rays of gold. The stillness of the waking forest was stirred by the scratching of a squirrel as it descended from its leafy nest, the light cascade of birdsong, softly colored larks and thrushes flitting amid the branches, the lilting call of quail in the thicket. Pale blooms of niphredil dotted the shaded silvan hideaways, ready to welcome the warmth of the Sun upon their petals as she once more assumed her place in the sky.

The gentle song of the wood was complemented then by peals of fair laughter and a hasty rustling amid the brush. There came Lúthien, the enchanting daughter of the king. She bound through the wood barefoot, her gown of simple grey with only a girdle of twisted silver. Tall and fair, she moved with the heedless grace of one born to the ways of the wild and free, her hair of dark midnight shadow streaming behind her as she ran, fleet and sure as a deer.

She glanced behind to see a flash of gold, her companion crashing through the brake with a bit more noise than she had made in her passing. Her young cousin followed as best he could, evoking more the speed and strength of a horse as he endeavored valiantly to keep pace with her. They were both laughing, for they found untold pleasure in these careless forays together that left the stately court behind, taken more often now that he was growing out of his childhood. He still could not catch her, but with each time he gave more admirable chase, his bright hair pulling errantly loose from its stay with every twist and turn.

At last Lúthien slowed in a secluded glade beside a gentle babbling offshoot of the Esgalduin river, where the grass grew thick and soft underfoot, allowing him to catch up to her. He was not too far behind and soon came panting from the verdure, somewhat winded by comparison, but all in fun.

He was armed with only a silver flute in his belt, a gift from his mother who thought he spent entirely too much time playing at swords. He was nearing his majority now at thirty-five years of the Sun, but had not yet attained his full form or stature, both of which promised to be great. The last traces of boyhood lingered still in his face, and he was as bright and spry as Celeborn had been in his younger days.

Lúthien enjoyed playing keeper for her young kinsman, still a newcomer to their circle, and somewhat a marvel within the family for his fair but incongruous hair. And he delighted in her company as well, his eyes gleaming brilliantly as he smiled up to her with kindred love and reverence, the lingering innocence of childhood. His were Elmo's eyes, of dark but vivid evergreen, eyes that had been passed to Celeborn but had overstepped Oropher only to reappear in his son.

"I shall catch you someday," Thranduil boasted as he recovered his breath, though his smile betrayed the impossibility of it all.

"Perhaps," she laughed, like silvery ripples in a stream. "But it will not be this day!" The morning Sun had risen further, its light accentuating the blue-black sheen in her hair, regal and untouchable, yet bright with joy. "Your legs are not yet long enough! Perhaps in years to come when you have filled out more."

"You never cease to humor me, Lúthien," he smiled, folding his legs beneath him in the deep grass. "Not even the white-tailed doe can keep pace with you."

They often came to this place, a secluded favorite when they looked for naught but peace. Lúthien had long hallowed it, so that it was called the Hírilad, the Lady's Vale. She danced now upon the grass, as she was wont to do, and it seemed the living spirit of the wood had taken visible form in her. Thranduil watched from his seat in the grass as he played for her, for she always insisted that dance was poorer without music. The birds were drawn to their Lady, and flitted round with a song of their own for the fair and puissant princess.

"I fear I am a poor substitute for Daeron," Thranduil apologized when the song was ended and the dance stilled.

"The apprentice is not expected to rival the master," Lúthien smiled as she came to sit near him, folding her fair white legs in the grass warmed by the sun. "And his fingers are more oft upon the harp than the bow. You have other skills of your own." Plucking one of the wild lilies that grew all around them, she slipped it into her dark hair like a white star amid the night sky. "I hear that Master Cúthalion has naught but praise for you."

She saw his eyes glow with pleasure at that. Several errant wisps of hair were freed of their loose bonds, making him look even younger as he gave no heed yet to the meticulous appearance that often characterized the elder lords. "I do try," he said modestly, though with some measure of underlying pride.

"Many try; it seems you succeed." She gathered more of the small long-stemmed blossoms in her elegant hands to make a chaplet of them. "Father is quite pleased with you, for even if you resemble our kinsmen of the West, your heart lies with us. Now the Finarfinionath have not even their honey-colored tresses to lord over the House of Elu!"

Thranduil seemed more thoughtful at that, finally pulling the nigh-pointless stay from his hair which then fell like a river of gold over his grey-clad shoulder. "Lúthien, you have been more oft among the Noldor than I," he said. "What do you think of them? Why have they come?"

Lúthien hesitated, for she knew not rightly what to tell him. A light summer breeze swept through the leaf-laden boughs above, making the shadows dance. "We know not why," she said at last. "It was first said that they came of the Valar to aid us in our hour of need, but Mother the Queen now greatly doubts that. A shadow lies upon them which they have yet to explain, and still we wait for them to enlighten us in their own time and of their own will. But they are proud."

Silence hung between them, the same uncomfortable uncertainty that came every time one tried to ferret out the secrets of the Noldor. Nerwen had gracefully deflected Celeborn's inquires, nor had fair Finrod offered the full tale. They were indeed a proud race, and almost she would have said _ashamed._ It seemed they had brought something upon themselves they were yet unwilling to bare before their Sindarin kin.

Lúthien looked to Thranduil, still in the bloom of youth and innocence. She recognized a resilient spirit in him, but one that could still be shaped like white-hot steel. Given the time and nurturing, he could yet be molded into something great, another pillar of Sindarin strength, remembered alongside Thingol, Celeborn, Oropher, and the other lords of Doriath. Or he could yet be twisted into something ruined, crippled and destroyed by strife and bitterness, marred as she had heard and suspected Fëanor to be marred, consumed with pride and jealousy.

Pride . . .

"Pride has been the honor of some," she said at last, "but the downfall of many. Do not allow your passions to rule you, Thranduil; a rampant garden overtaken by weeds pleases no one, and scatters the seeds of discord far and wide. The mind is the master of the heart, for the one will guide when the other is given to caprice. But cultivate passion with discipline, and it will serve you well."

"That is what my grandsire has often told me," Thranduil confided, twisting his deft fingers in the thick grass. "He seems to think my father too overbearing."

Lúthien nodded with a strange shadow of a smile. "And in that mind, I trust he is not alone." She knew the Lord Thalos well, one of those favored by her father the King. Mothered by a Vanya before the March of the Eldar, Thalos seemed to have inherited their sedate demeanor along with their singular beauty. It was with a twinge of reluctance that Thalos had granted Prince Oropher leave to wed his daughter, for that scion of the crown could indeed be at times brazen to a fault. Now it seemed he endeavored to hedge those tendencies in his grandson before they grew like thistles. But fair-haired or not, Thranduil was Oropher's blood, and such efforts were not always successful.

"It seems strange to me that pride should have driven them from their homes," he mused, almost to himself, digging the end of a twig into the dirt. "If the Blessed Realm was darkened, I do not know what better place they expected to find _here._ I should never like to leave Doriath."

"We are sheltered here," Lúthien said with a wan smile, "and for that, I thank the Valar. Young ones should be allowed to grow and mature in peace. I would not see you scarred by war before your time. You wield blade and bow well, but it is another matter to use them to take life in defense of your own." Gently, she lifted his chin and traced the line of his jaw with a tender and sisterly air, knowing there would come a day when the starlight in his eyes would inevitably be sharpened, when the blind trust of youth would fade or be broken, as a sycamore would shed its bark. He still allowed her to touch him, to offer the endearments she had offered to him as a child B there would soon come a day when he would not. At times she keenly thought it a shame that the young must leave their fairest years behind, gradually transformed and disillusioned by the endless march of the ages.

"I would that you never know the brutality of war," she said, her voice of heavy silver velvet. "But in this world of change, I fear all such hope is vain."


End file.
